


That Would Be Enough

by Caphug



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Dorks in Love, Historical Inaccuracy, Love Letters, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29425176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caphug/pseuds/Caphug
Summary: Laurens has a problem.Lately it has felt as though there is a Hamilton-shaped hole in his heart, which is rather ridiculous in his honest opinion, because Hamilton is right there. Two beds away currently, actually sleeping for once in his life. The two of them are nearly always in the same room, too, more often than not seated side by side.Yet the distance makes his heart clench in his chest.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	That Would Be Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peblezQ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peblezQ/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's Day! This was written as a Valentine's Gift for the lovely peblezQ. 
> 
> Hope everyone enjoys (:

Laurens has a problem. 

Well, he has several problems. 

One spot on the rather unglamorous list is occupied by his father, but that is hardly news. Neither is the way the war is currently going, though at the very least he is working on that, even if every step forward feels like an entire day’s march in horrid weather. Further down is the fact that the kitchen maid had sent her compliments, _apparently,_ according to Meade, though Laurens has elected to ignore the implications of that. And if he be generous, he might make a spot for Tilghman’s _goddamn_ feet _._

They make contact with his calf again, and by _god_. He forces his body still to avoid doing something ungentlemanly, like pushing Tilghman onto the floor. Laurens shuffles even closer to the edge of the bed to avoid what surely must be the north wind personalised. 

He will definitely be adding them to the list. 

Especially because it oh so painfully reminds him that he is not sharing with Hamilton any longer. And therein lies the real actual problem, the one that has the power to make him come apart at his ends. 

For lately it has felt as though there is a Hamilton-shaped hole in his heart, which is rather ridiculous in his honest opinion, because Hamilton is _right there._ Two beds away currently, actually sleeping for once in his life. The two of them are nearly always in the same room, too, more often than not seated side by side. 

Yet the distance makes his heart clench in his chest, for without the privacy the galley afforded them, Laurens can no longer map out the patterns in Hamilton’s freckles with his hand. He cannot openly admire the way the red in Hamilton’s hair goes chestnut coloured in the moon light or share his warmth in the cold. Neither can he place kisses between Hamilton’s shoulders, the place that makes him huff with laughter because it tickles just so. His body almost physically aches to put a hand on Hamilton’s thigh, but not even that he can do without fearing the worst. 

And damn it all, he very nearly misses the days when he almost felt as though he was about to infect Hamilton with an illness if he stepped too close. At least then he was more occupied with telling himself Hamilton’s hair looked no better than anyone else’s rather than having to physically restrain himself from yelling to the sky how very lovely he thinks it looks. 

At the time being he feels as though he has been trekking through the dessert for days on end, longing and yearning for the next oasis, the next drink of water, the next patch of shade. 

Alas, it remains out of sight. 

Laurens lets out a barely audible sigh. If he closes his eyes, he knows he will see Hamilton in his dreams, and for tonight it will just have to be enough. 

-

As it should turn out, a solution to his problem lies, as one should say, right in front of his nose. Laurens might have to have words with his brain for not coming upon the idea sooner, though he supposes it has been rather occupied what with how heavy he has been pining for Hamilton’s attention lately. 

In the morn an influx of letters arrives at the aides’ office. It is tedious work, not at all made better by the fact that a letter from his father is included in the pile of personal correspondence. Laurens purposefully saves it for a time when he can read it in private. 

He escapes to the aides’ cabin in the early evening, before any one of them has begun to think about retiring yet. For good measure he makes sure to promise that he shall light the fire so none of them shall freeze to death. 

Save himself, of course, he thinks grimly. At this point he is convinced there is no fire that can warm Tilghman’s feet past freezing cold. 

He carries several logs with him inside. The first he uses to push some of yesterday’s ash back, which to his surprise reveals a flick of white-grey paper. It be sticking out on one side of the ash pile. 

Laurens’ first thought is that it most likely be someone’s first draft or a page ruined by ink-splatter, disposed of by fire to give way to pages anew. None of them be a bigger offender than Hamilton in this, who periodically has to make his way over to the fireplace so that their shared desk, or their shared floor, be not drowned in waste. What he has found appears to be just a small slip, a more than half-burnt crumb well on its way into non-existence. 

Laurens grabs the paper by the corner to lay with the pile of wood so it can burn to dust properly. 

Except. 

Except it be not just any piece of paper he has dug out, but one most definitely not meant for him. His eyes catch on the words _that I shall keep you within my heart for all time we spend apart_. 

It is a love letter! 

Or rather, it was a love letter. It is now close to be erased into oblivion, perhaps thrown aside by someone who did not welcome the affection it harboured. 

The whole ordeal ricochets strangely with him. Laurens is no stranger to unwelcome affections, so a part of him will gladly help the letter be gone. Another part of him, though. Another part sows doubt about the unwelcomeness of the letter, because he himself used to be quick to burn his sketches when boyish features appeared on the page. Suddenly he is reminded of how he overcame all of his affections past. 

He has tried to leave them be, for all feelings not tended to fade eventually. 

It is already evident to him that he does not want to leave Hamilton be. He does not want to move on, does not want to leave the gap between them, even if it is ever small, and they are together. He does not want to drift apart or stick with the pain. He wants to be with Hamilton in all the ways it matters. 

Letters let him scream out his feelings for only Hamilton to hear. 

However, there is no denying the fact that the last few times he has sent and received any love letters, whatever romance thought to have been present had ended rather .. catastrophically. Perhaps that’s what does it in the end, when he resolves not to write out his heart’s desire for Hamilton. Instead, Laurens pours all of his heart’s content into what he does best. 

He sketches. 

He lets his hands wander over paper, lets them drive the pen wherever they wish. He caresses Hamilton’s hair, maps out his freckles, and sinks into the memory of how Hamilton’s lips feel against his own. 

And then, when he feels at ease, he leaves his heart in Hamilton’s travel chest. 

-

When he walks into the aides’ office the following morn, it is empty save one man. Hamilton is already hunched over a desk. He whips his head up as Laurens enters, his arm simultaneously moving with such speed that a pile of letters sail to the floor. 

Hamilton curses. 

“Good morning, Hamilton,” Laurens says, and then reconsiders. Hamilton’s normally tidy queue is crooked. Many strands of hair have escaped, too, which makes Hamilton look as though he spent the night sleeping in a bush. If Laurens had not already admitted to himself that he is indeed embarrassingly gone for this man, he might think himself mad at how just a few loose strands of Hamilton’s hair makes his stomach tingle. Yet. “Do not tell me you have stayed here all through the night?” 

“Laurens!” Hamilton is grinning, perhaps despite himself. His cheeks have some red in them, as if his sudden clumsiness embarrasses him slightly. He bends down to scoop a handful of letters off the floor, then turns towards Laurens again. He leans forward, with a cheeky look in his eyes. “I have not,” he replies, then drops his voice an octave. “But I still never sleep as well as when in your company.” 

Laurens can almost feel the tips of his ears go red. As a matter of a fact, Hamilton probably slept even less when they shared a bed in the galley. 

Still, he cannot help but encourage it a tiny amount. He misses having Hamilton to himself, damn it. 

He quickly looks behind them to see if someone else be in sight. Then he puts a hand on Hamilton’s cravat, which also be somewhat crooked. 

Hamilton’s lips part slightly. He lets out the tiniest of gasps, as if he should go breathless. Laurens can relate, because it also be how Hamilton makes him feel. He leans his face in so that his nose almost touches Hamilton’s. His lips slowly spread into a warm smile. “Liar,” he whispers. 

In hindsight it be a good thing that Hamilton does not kiss him right then and there, because suddenly there are heavy footsteps behind them. Laurens lets go of Hamilton, and as if they both share one mind, they immediately drop to the floor. Laurens, to gather the rest of the fallen letters, while Hamilton grabs a single letter before hastily retying his cravat. 

They make to stand again just as the general walks through the door. 

“Ah, Laurens! Just the man I wanted to see.” The general seems to be in a good mood. Laurens does not entirely think he shares that sentiment any longer. Suddenly he itches to draw Hamilton’s features again, to chase away the longing in his heart. Alas, the general continues: “Baron von Steuben shall still be in need of assistance. You may take Tilghman with you.” 

“Yessir,” Laurens replies, then bids Hamilton adieu. It feels sour to have a quiet moment with Hamilton cut so short, though he reminds himself that with the situation at hand the other aides would be likely to walk in the door any moment anyway. It helps only marginally. 

He makes it only a few steps outside of the office before Hamilton has caught up with him again. He pulls Laurens to the side in the hallway as to not disturb the occasional soldier who have recently found his way out of bed. Or the general for that matter, who has followed Hamilton out. 

“Laurens,” Hamilton starts. “I shall only require a moment more of your time.” His eyes have a soft look to them now, and he is holding a letter out in one hand. Laurens feels his heart speed up just from how Hamilton’s other hand currently is resting on his arm. “A letter of personal correspondence was wrongly sorted into the general’s matters,” Hamilton states. 

Laurens takes the letter, then tucks it into his inner coat pocket. His father, who truthfully be the only person regularly sending him any letters, has already written him this week. So naturally, he replies, “I shall be sure to deliver it to von Steuben safely.” 

This earns him a panicked look from Hamilton, who tightens his grip on Laurens’ arm. 

“Jack,” he insists. “Do not. It be a letter meant for you.” Hamilton’s voice drops an octave. “ _Only_ for you.” 

_Oh._

Laurens applauds his self-control for not letting his mouth fall open as he realises what he has been given. So this be why Hamilton was so easily startled when he came into the office earlier. 

More soldiers flow into the room then, including several of their fellow aides. Hamilton, regretfully, lets go of Laurens’ arm so he can retreat back into their office. 

Laurens takes his leave as well. His heart is possibly pounding its way through his chest at this point. _Hamilton wrote him back._ It takes a herculean effort not to let it show on his face, _hell_ , even walking at a slow pace is near impossible with the love letter from Hamilton burning a hole through his coat pocket. 

As he cannot spot Tilghman anywhere about, he resorts to look for him at the aides’ cabin before walking to von Steuben’s door. It still be early morn, so he supposes Tilghman would not be unreasonably late to rise if it should turn out he be abed still. 

Truthfully Laurens does not put much thought into this as his brain be otherwise occupied. 

He only makes it as far as the door to their cabin before, well. The letter is in his hand in an instant. 

May the lord have mercy on him. 

Laurens hastily retreats to the corner so he can have some warning if someone should exit. 

_My dearest, Jack,_ it begins. 

_I cannot claim your artistic talent, though I hope you shall allow me to lay claim to your heart._

Just this sentence has his entire being feeling as though it might melt. Laurens may possibly have to lean his back on the cabin wall to avoid sinking to the ground. And to think he almost gave this to Steuben! He would have been damned, in every possible way. 

The rest of the letter only intensifies his already overwhelming feeling of affection for Hamilton. Hamilton’s writing touches him so, the words wrapping him tightly in an embrace of affection. It does not, cannot, entirely solve his problem of feeling a constant longing for Hamilton, because that only Hamilton’s affection in person can do. But it clenches his thirst for affection enough, so that he might not feel as though they be a world apart at all times. It loosens the string that is strangling Laurens’ heart, and instead extends a tie that can keep him and Hamilton close. 

Laurens empties his heart into his art. He sneaks drawings into Hamilton’s coat, his travel desk, and even a pair of his folded socks. Hamilton replies in kind, building elaborate palaces all in Laurens’ honour. He finds letters in his boots, and his travel chest, and Hamilton even sneaks one into his hat one time. Their exchanges of love, of drawing and writing, provides a welcome outlet for frustration and longing, so that they may feel united in love even when they cannot convey this in person, or by touch. 

And for the time being, it is enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Pssst: the letter in the fire was written by Meade


End file.
